Dr Cullen, From Whence Doeth Thou Come?
by Lady Zoe
Summary: Carlisle Cullen is Stregoni Benefici. How did he earn that title, and what molded him into the man that he is today? This is his life story, from his human years in the 1640's to Chicago in 1918. Pre-Twilight/Carlisle & numerous OC's. Attempting Canon.
1. Author's Notes

Summary: Carlisle Cullen is the original Stregoni Benefici. How did he come about that title, and what molded him into the man that he is today? This is his life story. Pre-Twilight.

**Disclaimer: **I am_ not_ Stephanie Meyer, nor do I hold any rights or entitlements to the Twilight series or its characters. Ms. Meyer has that esteemed distinction. This disclaimer shall serve purpose and notice throughout the entirety of the following story.

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**Dr. Cullen, From Whence Doeth Come?**

**A/N:** This is my first work of fan fiction; please be kind enough to leave your feedback, but be gentle on me. ;) This will likely be the longest of my author notes, and I do hope you read it, as it will help "set the stage", if you will, of the story that follows. For now this will be rated "T", but the rating could possibly change later on to an "M" rating. Also, I am not entirely set on the story title, so that may change further along as well.

This story begins with Carlisle as a human child, so the first few chapters are relatively dialogue-free; that will pick up more as Carlisle grows up. This biography is a work of fiction all taking place in the centuries prior to Carlisle meeting and changing Edward. All characters, with the exception of Stephanie Meyer's creations, are original to this story. You will be witness to Carlisle's first meeting with the Volturi and you will recognize those characters, however everyone else is of my own imaginings.

For the sake of this story, assume that early on Carlisle and everyone else speaks Elizabethan English; that is, Early Modern English (think King James Bible or the works of William Shakespeare.). The dialogue will mostly be in Modern English, as this is a retrospective of Carlisle's life. I _may _attempt Elizabethan English if and when the setting calls for it. Please don't call for my hanging if I mess it up too much!

Also keep in mind that Carlisle's father was an Anglican Pastor, so religion is featured heavily in his human years. As the preamble stated, this is an exploration of the history, people and society that molded Carlisle into the man he has become. If reading about God and faith isn't "your thing", I recommend you skip over the first few chapters, though in doing so you may miss out. I can promise you that this isn't my attempt to save your soul or turn you to God. The doctrine presented within holds true to 17th century principles. I do not belong to the Anglican Church, but I've done my due diligence in my attempt to sound like I know what I'm writing about.

Now that that's out of the way, shall we delve into the mind and life of one Dr. Carlisle Cullen? Enjoy!


	2. Prologue: Reflection

**Prologue: Reflection**

Dr. Carlisle Cullen was seated in his private library at his handsome mahogany desk. His fingers gently leafing through the written thoughts; ancient pages containing the missives of his human father. In the corner of the room a Gramophone was playing _O soave fanciulla _from _La Bohème_ in the background. Briefly, he contemplates the opera's story, wishing he could feel that kind of pull—that intense type of love for another... Outside the window behind him, snow was gently falling to the ground.

Every ten years or so, Carlisle set aside a few days to do a sort of self review upon his life, and update his journals. He felt this activity served as a reminder of his human past; it helped him reminisce. It kept him grounded into being a man—a human, albeit immortal— first and a vampire second. He held tightly to his humanity, compassion and beliefs.

He now had twenty three such tomes in this library, all containing accountings of his life's personal thoughts and experiences. He began this practice when he was still human, a young teenaged boy, in fact. It was one of the things in which his father had guided him. _"To be able to reflect upon your past and learn from the mistakes is a valuable gift, one that should be always recorded for later introspection. Use your past as a guide to your future,_" the Parson had said. Carlisle had also kept his father's journals, many of which held detailed accounts of Carlisle's human life. They helped him remember that life. When he couldn't recall a particular event, his father's writings painted a scene in which he could more readily extrapolate the events in his mind. He allowed himself this exercise whenever he contemplated his history.

As a vampire, Carlisle's memory was infallible. But he found that writing down his life's experiences was cathartic to his mind and soul, particularly during his early years as a newborn vampire. Back then, writing was quite helpful in solidifying his humanitarian dogma.

Carlisle also felt a responsibility of sorts to record history as it unfolded around him. Not that anyone would ever read these observances; rather that the written word is somehow more plausible as events in life unfold. It is World War One now, November of 1917. When he was a boy society proper would never have imagined war on such a grand scale, especially with the tools of war humans now possessed and unabashedly used.

He'd made his way to Chicago in 1914 and secured a position in the nearby community hospital. It seemed that the longer he lived, the more difficult it became to maintain this façade. For the most part Carlisle had always lived the life of a recluse, keeping to himself. He was happy to provide his knowledge, wisdom, experience and talent to the human world; he aided the sick, injured and downtrodden, but always kept them at arm's length. He spoke with the humans, interacted with them, and even maintained a few friendships in the past. But never could they know what he truly was; never could he allow anyone access to full knowledge of his life, and this saddened him. There were only a handful of his own kind that knew of his strange way of life.

The Vampiric Royal Triad known as the Volturi labeled him _Stregoni Benefici—_they mocked him with that title, but he rather liked it. "Helpful witch doctor" is what it meant. He chose to disregard the 'witch' part. He was no witch. He drank the blood of animals instead of people; in the judgmental crimsoned eyes of the others, he strayed far from the norm. Carlisle likened it to atoning for the existence of his kind. Rumors and myths about him had been woven into the tales humans told each other about vampires. To them, Stregoni Benefici was a benefactor, a kind vampire who was a fervent enemy of evil vampires. In some small manner, Carlisle devoted himself to making up for the pain and loss wreaked upon humankind by the vampiric way of life. As a doctor, a surgeon even, he was dedicated to his principles. He never imbibed blood from a human, and he was steadfast in his resolve to obtain sustenance solely from animals. But Carlisle was alone in this way of thinking, and lonely in his heart. He felt empty in this existence, and it bothered him greatly.

Carlisle had given notice to his fellow colleagues the week prior, informing them of his impending absence. He wanted no distractions or interruptions, and there really wasn't anything major going on in the health of the community that would require his undivided attention. Occasionally he would be needed in surgery, but he had cleared his schedule to have two days off for the purpose of this period of introspection...


	3. Carlise Cullen: The Beginning

**Carlisle Cullen: The Beginning**

She was in a hurry, she had to find him. With tears streaming down her cheeks and the rest of her face dampened by the foggy weather, she entered the building quickly. She stopped abruptly, remembering where she was. Her head bowed in reverence. She knelt and crossed herself, her hand moving quickly to head, heart, shoulder, shoulder, then pressed palms and fingers together. In her mind she offers her prayer and concerns of safety and well heath. Standing up, her footfalls were again quickened, tapping out a quiet rhythm on the wooden floors. She searches the room, dimly lit by candles and the weak morning sun. Varying hues were cast into the church from the stained glass windows to the pews and floor. He's there, at the front laying prostrated before the pulpit. His usual white pastoral robe is colored in reds and blues cast from the stained glass window scenes of Jesus and his disciples. Seeing him, she speaks in raised tones, loudly enough for him to hear. Echoing off the walls, her voice matches the expression on her face—panic, worry, stress, and fear.

"Parson! Parson! Please forgive my intrusion, but Goody Cullen's time has begun! Her waters have left her body and she is in pain! She instructed me to find you, but she needs the midwife! Please milord, may I send for the midwife?!" Young Agnes had abandoned her duties as a servant in Parson Cullen's home when she heard Anne's sudden cries of pain.

Agnes found him alone in the church sanctuary, laying face down before the large wooden cross above the pulpit. She had interrupted Parson's early Morning Prayer and intercessions with this declaration, and it set him into a fit of unease and ill thoughts. It was certainly _not_ how he expected to spend his time of Holy Reverence.

As a house maiden of 12 years of age, Agnes could be very excitable over the smallest of things. Parson expected no differently this time. He was a man of difficult temperament, and it irritated him that she would dare interrupt in this manner. There was simply no reason good enough to burst in to the sanctuary, shrieking to wake the dead! He was sorely tempted to strike her for this intrusion, and would not allow her to distract him as he finished his contemplations. Parson would likely punish her later, withholding her evening meal and banning her to sleep on the kitchen floor rather than in the servants' quarters.

He did not rise up from his prostrated state to look at her, but he replied, his voice seething. "Yes child, fetch Mistress Davenport and her servant yourself! Retrieve anything she requires to assist Anne, but you are _not_ to be in Anne's presence this day!" he harshly whispered, continuing,. "Also, do not alert anyone else of these events. I shall take that upon myself. Do you understand, Agnes?"

"Yes, milord. I understand," Agnes cowered as she hurried out to do Parson's bidding. Quickly she retreated to the doors of the church, her feet again tap, tap, tapping against the wooden floors of the sanctuary.

Parson had forbade Agnes from Anne's presence, knowing full well that she would not be able to keep her frantic emotions under control during Anne's time of pain and worry. He would not allow Agnes to influence Anne's caring demeanor while she birthed their child. Anne had enough to be concerned with in the coming hours.

Agnes had come into Parson's life as an orphan, at Anne's behest, at 10 years old. Anne had taken her in, as her heart could not turn Agnes away. Officially, she was a ward of the church; however Agnes knew better her place in Parson's home—as a maid servant. Still, Anne looked after her, guiding her, teaching her the ways of a woman's place and duty whenever she herself had a spare moment.

As Parson remained before the pulpit, his thoughts wandered to his beloved. Anne was second only to God in his life, and this was their first child. Inwardly, he adored her, and she was very pleased to be carrying his child. Within his own contemplations though, he was worried for his Anne..

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Deacon John Cullen wed Anne Caldwell last year in this very church, having met her father and family three years ago, when she was 14 years of age. Deacon John was an intensely religious and well spoken man, though known to be dynamic in his opinions. He commanded respect from those under his ward, and only slightly regarded those above him. He was tall and lean in stature, with a distinguished appearance about him. He was somewhat feared and yet admired by the congregate of the Church of Saint Augustine. That his status in the community had risen so quickly in recent years spoke volumes about his character. The people listened and unerringly heeded his words, and admired the ceaseless work he did for Father God.

Anne was a remarkable beauty, and the men in the district had taken notice. Her light blonde hair bundled on her head with loose curls framing her heart shaped face. It was most sincere in its innocence. Her eyes were crystal blue as the sky, and held immeasurable maturity. Young women of her caliber were a rarity in this age. She was quiet and reserved in nature, but genuine and friendly. She was considerate and welcoming, while being respectful to those around her, particularly her father and the elders in the community. Anne was fiercely attentive to her parents and her younger sister; she truly cared about the people in her life. Deacon John had come to learn these things about her as he courted her; he was extremely pleased with her character. That she was blessed with such inner beauty to match her exterior did not go unnoticed by him. Her father was equally pleased that Anne had caught the deacon's eye, and after a brief courtship, Master Caldwell readily consented to her hand in marriage.

Soon after the marriage ceremony Deacon John was installed as the Saint Augustine's Parson. The former Parson had been assigned to a larger congregation, and he petitioned the Archbishop on John's behalf to promote him within his own church. At twenty-four he was one of the younger men in Southwark to achieve such status for a church of St. Augustine's size. It was a moderately sized church; Master and Mistress. Porter having recently added a daughter to their family, making the church body a total of 427 congregants. It was mostly comprised of families; merchants, dock workers and men of average means.

As a man of the clergy, Parson John was aware of the children who did not survive birth, and also the mothers who died while the infant lived. He'd seen this firsthand in the families within St. Augustine's care. The current state of Anne's health was his biggest concern.

His prayers shifted from the well being of his congregation to fervent pleas to Yah-weh to protect Anne. He needed her to live; she could always bear another child when she was in better health. He shifted his position, rising from his belly, on to his knees. He placed his hands on his thighs as if needing the support to hold himself upright. Parson remained there; he felt as if a horse had kicked him in the chest. He found it difficult to breathe, his body attempting to continue the simple act—now a chore—of breathing. Ragged, staggered air sucked in and huffed out heavily as his eyes began to rim red in fighting off the tears. He would not—_nay, could not--_ allow anyone to see him this way. He was the Pillar of the community, the Rock they all relied upon.

Parson was reluctant to leave the sanctuary as he slowly rose from his knees, his feet felt heavy as he moved to have a seat in the front row pew. If Anne did not survive, he knew enough of himself to understand that his demeanor would only be that of depression and despair. In his anguish he would likely lash out at his servants, or worse, the congregation. Anne helped focused him; where no others could, she kept him within a modicum of restraint. Whenever she would garner the bravery to speak of it to him, he would recoil inwardly at her reminder to have more patience, more understanding. He knew she was right but it wasn't her place to speak of such things, and oft times he reprimanded her gently to hold her tongue. .

Parson's thoughts were amok. Anne's heart may very well be stilled at the coming of dusk, and he didn't need the added burden of child rearing—regardless of whether he had a few servants to do his bidding. Without her, the child would be a hindrance to him. Parson knew Anne had been having some difficulties as her belly swelled with his child, and he prayed to God that she would have strength to endure. The physician had seen her last week at his beckoning. There had been a sickness in the parish as of late. Parson himself was briefly affected by it, but he'd recovered after impassioned prayers to God. Anne had been ill with fever, and she had been un-able to hold down her food for the past six days. Parson worried for her. She was weakened by this illness, and it continued to ravage her still. The child would be early; it was not due for a few more weeks. To give birth now would surely be her undoing.

He needed to divert his thoughts. He walked back to his office, through the side door next to the altar. He knew he would have some time before the child was born, and he needed to give attention to a particular problem that was growing as of late. Only yester-day he received reports regarding a witch in the area who was becoming more brazen with her craft. It was said of her that she made claims of speaking to the dead, casting spells and knowledge of hexes. She is a demon possessed woman, to be sure! He must organize a raid upon her place of dwelling; she must be captured and made to face her crimes against God. She would be dealt with swiftly. Her blasphemous wrong doings in the area had been gaining a following. Only recently had it come to the church's notice.

To blaspheme against God in such a manner is beyond sacrilege! Activities of witchcraft, lycanthropy, divination, leech demons—those who feasted on blood—and the ilk were, thankfully, few and far between. Left ignored though, they would certainly gain a stronghold in the region; something Parson would not allow. He was charged with protecting his flock from such treacherous influences of evil.

He determined that if Anne and the child survived this day and the days to come, he would rejoice in new fatherhood and delay the raid. However, if she did not live on, his anger would be tenfold and the witch would die at the stake on the morn, engulfed in the flames of his disdain of her kind. The death of his Anne would indict the witch to eternal damnation, her soul to be lapped by the eternal embers of Hades. A small part of him hoped for that derision; he needed the cleansing release a raid provided. Until then, he would keep to himself in devotional prayer and contemplation, waiting for the final result of this tumultuous day.


	4. Hades Convicteth Thee of Thy Sins

**Hades Convicteth Thee of Thy Sins**

There is a quiet knock on his door, an entreating persistence searching for him. It had been repeated many times, and became louder as the inquirer drew near, "Parson Cullen? Milord… Parson?"

It is mid-day; Parson has remained upstairs in his office with his thoughts flailing about, thinking of Anne, the raid, and brief contemplations of his disregarded duties of the day. He is standing at his window looking down over the River Thames, observing the daily life of his church's surroundings. Dock workers loading a ship, a horse-drawn cart passing by beneath his window, a mother and child walking leisurely to a destination unbeknownst.

Briefly he looks over his shoulder to the door, and then returns his gaze to the goings-on below. His beckoned reply is harsh and demanding, but quiet; "Master Davenport? Enter, come in! What tidings hath thee for me? What sayeth Mistress Davenport of Anne?"

Stepping into the room, Master Davenport looks upon the man for whom he has searched, saying, "Parson….milord…the physician hath been summoned, but it is not for good tidings. Goody Anne…mine Hester reports of so much blood, and thine own Anne is no longer awaken'd, yet her breathe is toiled. I was at hand at the threshold of the door. Her cries as she laboured were so weak, milord! Parson, she needeth the Sacrament, her Final Anointing; please, go to her; forgiveth her sins and garner her passage to Heaven!"

"And of the infant? What sayeth Mistress Davenport of the child?" Parson's inquiry is whispered and distant as he attempted to hide his distress. His gaze continued looking downward to the river as he received this news.

"A boy, milord. God hath given Goody Anne a boy to this life. Hester tells of him to be small but his cries are lively. My daughter tends to the child as we speak."

"I give you my thanks, Master Davenport. You are a good man to deliver this news; I will attend to Anne momentarily. I need only collect my Bible and ministrations for her Last Rites. Please, find my maidservant, Agnes. Send her to give notice to Anne's father posthaste."

"Of course, Parson. Master Caldwell will be sought immediately." Master Davenport bade his leave of the Parson and turned quickly to find Agnes.

Parson's avowal was true enough as he did need to collect his vestments and items of the Sacrament; however he really wanted a moment alone to bolster his emotions. He had administered the Final Anointing a few times in his pastoral calling, but this would be different. This was his Anne for whom he must perform the task. He would don a facade, not allowing his sorrow to be evident. Parson's burdens were great, but they must be borne by him alone. He would not allow anyone to comfort him; he was the provider of comfort for his parishioners, and he could not let them see his anguish, his pain. He would be thought of as a weak and inferior man.

Sighing heavily, he crossed the room to close the door. He would have no witness to his grief. He moved back to the window and lowered himself to his knees, head bowed and hands clasped to ready for prayer. In hushed whispers, he pled to God. "Dominus pascit me, et nihil mihi deerit; in pasucuis virentibus me collcoavit, super auuas quietis eduxit me. Animam meam refecit. Deduxit me super semitas iustitiae propter nomen suum. Nam et si ambulavero in Valle umbrae Mortis non timebo mala, quoniam Tu mecum es, virega Tua et baculus Tuus, ipsa me consolata sunt. Parasti in conspectu meo mensam adversus eos, qui tribulant me; impinguasti in oleo caput meum, et calix meus redundat. Etenim benignitas et misericordia subsequentur me omnibus diebus vitae meae, et inhabitabo in Domo Domini in longitudinem dierum. (The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.) Father, Who art in Heaven, hear my plea; Thy daughter, my Anne, wilt be with Thee today. I pray her soul is pleasing to Thee, and Thou dost accepteth her unto thine own realm. Thou hath granted me, thy devoted servant, a son; grant me also the courage, the knowledge and ability to raise him up to walk with Thee. I pray my son learns the ways of Thine path of righteousness. Lord, keep him safe from treachery and evil, from those who partake in wicked iniquities and harmful sin. In Jesus' Holy name I pray. Amen."

**~oЖo~**

The cry of a newborn babe and hushed whispers are all he heard as he approached the door. Adorned in his black cassock, Parson John gave pause before entry, to steel himself for what he knew lay beyond. He leaned heavily against the wall, his hands busying on the beads. He had been an observer to this before. He had been nearby as a parishioner drew their last breath. He had heard the rattle of death emanating from lungs that struggled to continue living. It was his duty to be present, to ensure the dying delivered their final confession and they received the Holy Communion that would usher them into the hands of God. Whilst he cared for their souls, he never gave much thought to the person. He was not a personable man. His was a duty, a calling, for a higher purpose. He was simply a means to prepare for a finality, an end to this worldly life. He was young, and Anne was a woman not many years out of childhood herself, yea, but still far too young to be on her deathbed. It was unfathomable to be in such a position as now. Again he bowed his head to offer a silent prayer, knowing he must enter to bid his farewell to his love, his Anne. Pulling in a deep breath, he crosses himself in finality; giving in, but not yet ready to let her go. A brief thought passes through that there will be a raid tonight. His ire will be sated. There will be flames and the one who accursed him to this misery will be made to suffer the consequences of their sins. The witch will burn until the vestige of her earthly body exists as no more than ashes to be carried on the wind. Her soul will be ushered into Hell this night.

As he pushes the door away, the room falls to a reverent silence. They know why he has come. They know what she means to him. He looks to each person in attendance, and then moves to a coffer near to the door to place down the satchel containing his Bible, Holy Water and the Sacraments. The infant is not at hand, and yet he hears the cry. Perhaps in a nearby room, but not here. He can enter no further, stilling his legs next to the coffer. His eyes fall to the bed, his matrimony bed, there in the corner opposite him. The mid-day rays of the sun are casted across her feet, the shadow of the window pane elongated across the bed. Blood. There is so much blood. There are linens gathered in a low basket, wet and mottled red amidst the white. On the wooden planked floor as well are puddles of water tinged in blood. Anne is covered, but attended by the physician. Also present are Mistress Davenport and her handmaiden.

The physician regards him with sorrowed eyes, "Parson, she hath not much life left in her. I beseecheth of thee, administer the Sacrament! As I hath administered to her body, so ye must see to her soul."

Anger flashed across his face, his jaw set and eyebrows knitted in rage, "BE GONE! Out with the lot of ye all! Leave me to her! I will no further abide instruction with regard to her soul! I knoweth of it enough and will heare no more!" Extending his arm to point at the door, Parson could withhold himself no longer, his outburst sudden and fraught with deep torment.

The physician lowered his head in reverence as he walked, wiping his blood-stained hands on a towel during the movement. He stopped in front of Parson to look up at him. Addressing him gently, he informed the new father, "The last request of Goody Anne would be that thy son doth bear the name of 'Carlisle'. She aforementioned that you would know of her reasons."

The women cowered at Parson's bellowed demand, quickly stepping to the threshold and relieved to be excused from the impending death within. Giving one last look over his shoulder to Goody Anne, the physician bade his leave of the room.

A quiet scrape of wood against wood—the door meeting its frame—indicated he was once again alone. Parson dragged his boot laden feet across the floor as he moved toward the bed. Anne was beautiful still, though her appearance was ashen with the pallor of her own life's end. Bending to his knees at her bedside, he gingerly took up her hand into his own, and with his other hand brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. He cared naught that his breeches and pastoral robe settled into the stained water on the floor.

"My dearest Anne, ye will be held in the embrace of our Lord God this day. Thy soul is goode; thee hath pleased our Lord and lived righteously. I aught rejoice in this, and yet I can not find it within me to be so exultant. With all certainty I hath been accursed, and ye are yet made to stand in my stead. I shall make haste to garner atonement. The witch who hath caste this upon ye...nay, upon _me_, shall be justly punished.

"Rest, my beloved. Know that thy son will be a goode boy, a goode _man. _He wilt be made to know thee, to honor thee and thy memory.

**~oЖo~**

The woman's screams could be heard from quite the distance, "I beseecheth of thee, do not do this! Please, milord! I am a Godly woman...thee hath been misled!

Her hair was grasped tightly in his hand, the lace cap which had previously covered her head now lay on the floor. Parson's face was flushed red in absolute rage. She was pushed violently against the far wall of her simple home. She knew better than to fight back; her hands clutched her skirts tightly as his other hand grasped her throat.

He leant in to her with his nose close to hers, screaming in return, "Quiet! Be silent, ye foul heathen! Thou hath forsaken thy Lord God, and He hath charged me with your dispatch thusly!" Looking back over his shoulder, Parson's eyes searched the room. Finding him, he orders, "Thomas, bind this witch and gag her well that no further curses may escape her lips! Her blasphemous practicings will no more plague London, for this is our task at hand!"

Parson John,and Deacons Thomas Lister and Henry Somers had battered in the door in their fervor to quash a perceived threat to the residents in the district. Their intent would not be swayed and it was the mission of the church to eliminate evil, both real and imaginary. The good people of London needed balance and leadership. Parson knew himself to be that leader, and took up the role with all dedication. If one must be delivered unto hell to spare the rest, he was emboldened with the authority of the church to do so. His deacons would provide no questions in this regard.

"Witch, ye hath been charged and found guilty in the practice of witchcraft! A Godly woman hath been murdered by _thine own_ evil cursings! My beloved...my Anne, hath too early been expired, her soul unto Heaven yester-day! She suffer'd with the wickedness brought on by a curse. It can be of no other source!"

"Nay, milord, a thousand times..nay! T'is not true! I am a widow, not a witch!" The woman croaked out her pleading denial, knowing already she was wrongly doomed to die at the stake. Fear riddled her old features, afixing them into utter shock, grimacing at the knowledge of her impending death.

"Open!" Grabbing her by the cheeks with one hand, Thomas, a large man of portly but intimidating build, forced his fat fingers and thumb between her jaws to open her mouth, and shoved a large wad of sackcloth into it. He then wrapped her head with leather cording to hold the sackcloth in place. Parson then spun her about, pushing her face against the wall while Thomas began binding her wrists, then her arms. There was no grace or care in the manner of which she was handled. Parson's hand was still grasping her hair tightly, and the other hand pressed into her spine between her shoulder blades, his fingers digging mercilessly.

"Henry, take her to the cart, Thomas and I will join you shortly. We will eradicate any existence of this heathen! Thomas, gather her clothes, bed linens, knittings, and furniture. It will all burn with her to-day! Her life as anyone knew of it will be no more!"

By now a curious crowd of onlookers had collected outside the door. They had seen this before, they knew the morbidity of what was to come. And yet, the curiousity still drew them in, the violent end of one's life a new wrinkle in an otherwise uneventful day-to-day existence. It only occurred often enough to keep them interested, keep them coming time and again for the same event repeated for the same cause and end. Through her bindings and gag, the woman still screamed, cried, twisted and thrashed in Henry's grasp, still pled for mercy that would not be in the coming. Her feet dragged uselessly as he pulled her toward her fate. Epithets were heard from the crowd, "Be damned, witch!", "Burn her, burn her!", "Scourge her!", "Blasphemer!" Henry harshly threw her into the back of the cart and, as he was clear, rocks began raining down in her direction. All the while her muffled screeching was carried into the melee of voices and shouts. As she righted herself to sit up, a large stone hit squarely to her forehead. Blood trickled down her face--mixing with her tears—and blinding her. She screamed behind her gag with the unrelenting missles hitting her again and again. Her body was becoming battered at the cruel hands of her neighbors. In the days prior, they believed her to be as upstanding and righteous as themselves. All it took was an accusation from their religious leader for them to view her in a different light. Parson was their conduit, their voice, to God. Surely he would know a witch by God's guidance.

"Henry," yelled a man from the crowd, "doth thee need help ridding this wretch?"

"Aye", called Henry back to him, "I want three able men into this abode, assist Parson in collecting the things of her life, throw them upon her into the cart. They will burn with her!"

In less than a quarter of an hour, the woman's cries quieted to no more than wimpers. Her strength quickly sapped from the abuse she received, as well as her advanced age. She was no young maiden, having seen at least forty winters in her lifetime. As a simple woman of a peasant's background, she knew not her exact age. She was buried beneath the few possessions of her life, at least now protected from the pelting of rocks. She ached in her back, her head, her wrists and arms, her bosom and leg. Angry red welts riddled her skin from deadly accurate strikes, as well she was painted in her own blood from the open wounds. She tried not to move her leg, as a small dagger was lodged in her upper thigh, pinning her skirts to her body. Whenever an item from her home was cast into the cart and upon her body, she inhaled heavily through the pain.

Upon his appearance, a quiet lull came over the audience. Standing in the threshold to look outside, Parson called in a raised voice, "Masters Somer and Lister, this place of iniquities is emptied. I shall return to perform a blessing." Addressing the crowd, he continued, "It will be cleansed of all evil-doings, until then let it be known none are to enter here!"

Quickly, two men came forward, bringing boards and nails to ensure Parson's decree. The entry here would be sealed.

Parson and Thomas climbed to the horse-drawn cart, and Henry mounted his horse. Together, and with the crowd following closely behind, they made the short journey to continue the woman's torture.

As if to add humiliation to the torment, her funeral pyre was constructed in the public square only a few roads over from her home. She would have a public death this eve, taunted further into her demise. Erected in the centre of the large plaza was a post surrounded by timber and dried grasses.

"Thee!" Dismounting from the cart, Parson pointed to two young men, likely still in their young teen years, "Remove the heathen's belongings, carry it to the pyre."

Five more added their strength to the two young men, quickly emptying the cart and unburying the convicted woman.

The mid-afternoon sun was hot, unyeilding with few clouds to cover the blazing heat. Parson stood in the cart astride over the woman, his cloak oppressing him futher with perspiration beading down his neck. Looking down at her, he saw the terror and pain reflected in her eyes. Smirking cruelly, he tapped his foot on her thigh, the one with the dagger still embedded there. She yelped futilely, her throat raw from attempted utterances prior.

Turning his attention back to the crowd, Parson addressed them thusly, "Hark, Goodmen! To-day ye shall bear witness to punishment of a heretic, a criminal of most heinous ways!" Pointing downward to indicate the woman, he continued, "This woman...this _witch_, hath caused, by means of witchcraft and curses, the death of an upstanding woman in our society! Many of thee, including mine own self, were sentenced to sick beds for a time. Mine own goodwife Anne Cullen, suffer'd this sickness cast upon her whilst her belly carried our son! Further was she tormented by bearing this child too early! This is an act of treachery borne of hatred by this woman at my feet! Whilst she was faced by my accusations she admitted as much to these atrocities." The woman's eyes were panicked and enlarged; she began shaking her head vehemently denying these charges, but no one could see her laying down in the cart. "For these, and by order of the Holy Church, she hath been found guilty of murder and wilt be made to suffer for her deeds! Remove her to the post, but take care, she will perish by fire!"

Slowly, the four dozen or so in the crowd began chanting, "Burn her, burn her, burn her!" The cacophonous melee of shouts fed the violence-hungry onlookers. Fervor induced by desire to see a woman wrongly punished stirred the people into action, no longer wishing to simply be by-standers waiting for the main event. They pushed forward, placing hands on the cart sideboards. Removing one side of the cart sidewall, three men harshly grabbed her, one by both hands and the remaining two by each foot. The man closest to the dagger in her thigh twisted it viciously then removed it, causing her to renew her screams and lamenting tears.

Parson, his face twisted in such malignant hostility, stood by to watch. They knew what to do with her, they had done it before. She was dropped before the post, her hands now scratching in the dirt. Futilely, she tried to drag her body away. She felt the _snap_ of her arm giving way to the weighted boot that now stood on that arm. Heaving,she began to gag, desperately trying to clear her mouth and nose of the vomit that blocked her breaths, nearly made impossible by the sackcloth still shoved in her mouth. She was a pitiful sight, but no one gave pity. Her face and arms were bruised, broken, cut, and bloodied. As well she was covered everywhere in dirt, perspiration and blood.

Abruptly, the men pulled her up and dragged her to the post. A clump of her hair remained in one man's hand as he withdrew from her. She felt the biting sting of the dagger slicing down her back, tearing at her frock. Her own dress and shift was cut from her, leaving her stone-battered torso naked before the crowd.

"Parson, her drawers?" Yielding the blade, the man inquired whether he should cut away her undergarment pants.

"Nay, leave them to her," Parson replied bitingly.

Cries of "flog her, flay her open'd!" were added to the entreatiments demanding her incineration.

Two men (two of the same that carried her to the post) again grabbed her by each wrist, wretched screeching emitted from her. They dragged her to face her abdomen and chest to the post. They tied her at the wrists first, then wrapping a loose cording around her neck and the post to secure her there, yet leave her back exposed.

Above the din, Parson called, "Thomas, retrieve the whip from the cart, and begin lashing her!"

Suddenly, the long thin cut on her back from the dagger was joined by more, the pain intense and unrelenting. The woman winced and cried out muffled screams with each strike and crack of the hooked metal teeth embedded in the whip cording.

Fat Thomas, breathing labouriously with sweat pouring down his cheek and into his beard, turned to Parson to ask, "How many, milord?"

"Tire ye, anon Goodman? Hath not it been 12 lashes only thusfar? Give over to another, this witch wilt be made to know the wrath of God firstly, then she wilt feel the fyre of Satan's domain!"

"Aye, milord Parson." Thomas stepped back, handing the whip to another man who then continued with the flagellation.

"Halt!" He called for the whipping to cease. Parson had lost count after thirty-three lashes, but knew it was much more than that—if not doubled in the amount. The whip changed hands twice more after Thomas, their arms tiring from the repeated motion of casting the whip. Her body, both front and back, was striped and ripped in bloodied cuts. The seat of her drawers were shredded and bloodstained. The whip had, on a few strikes, wrapped around her side and reached her abdomen. The woman hung by the loose cord, her head craned upward toward the sky and her knees given out long before. She was quiet, but crazed out of her mind by the pain her body endured. By now, her torture had carried on for three hours and a half more.

Parson's glee could not be contained, a sickening sneer was on his lips whilst a cackle erupted from his throat. Her possessions had been tossed aside in haste to reach her from the cart. "Help me, take these wretched things to the stake!" Quickly, the people nearest gathered the meager items of her life; her clothes, knittings, and a few pieces of furniture, and tossed them haphazardly around her feet. The funerary pyre would be seen from great distances.

Whilst the woman's abuse carried on, a few in the crowd made ready a small fire nearby from which the stake's blaze would be started. The Parson turned to this fire now, taking up a large tree branch ablaze in flames, and brought it to the woman's tindered stake. A small flame lapped at the grasses, then erupted into an inferno moments later. There was a lull in the noise surrounding the plaza, then as the blaze grew, so did the shouts of the crowd. The accused woman writhed as best she could, feeling the intense heat begin to bubble her skin. The drawers on her legs burned away quickly, exposing the rest of her body and fueling the fire. Her lungs seared in white hot heat and smoke stenched of burned hair, boiling blood and searing fat. Finally, her conscienceness gave way to blackness. The fire ultimately reached 10 metres high, and her body continued to cremate into the night.

* * *

A/N: The term 'Goody' is an abbreviation for _Goodwife_, a precursor to Miss or Missus (Mrs.) commonly used between the 14th and 18th centuries. 'Goodman' would have been the male version, though never abbreviated to 'Goody' as that was only female specific. "Master" and "Mistress" are also terms commonly used to refer to a married older person above the age of 25. There existed a societal hierarchy related to these designations, should you care to delve into further understanding. Google is your friend. ;)

Keep in mind that the language you read in this story, especially early on, is meant to seem somewhat archaic. I am not perfect, but do consider myself to be a proficient word smith and there are instances where the spelling _is_ correct for the 17th century. Please don't expend the effort to tell me that I misspelled a word or used the wrong verbiage. The language is aged to reflect the setting.

Prayer and ecclesiastical services prior to the 1800's, particularly conducted by a person of the cloth, would normally be spoken in Latin. For the sake of this story, I'll try to keep the Latin to a minimum. I do not speak it, but the Latin written in this story is accurate to what I remember from living in Italy years ago; it is written in stone walls in all the ancient cities there. Like I said, Google is your (my) friend! I'll try to include the English translation in parentheses as well as a more personal prayer—where warranted—to allow a sense of understanding the emotion and/or setting as it unfolds. The first prayer in Latin is the 22nd Psalm of the Bible, King James Version. More recent translations call this out to be the 23rd Psalm.


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